


When We Touch We Enter Touch Entirely

by Cinaed



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Background Methos/Duncan UST, Episode Tag, Episode: s06e11 Indiscretions, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Amy leaves, the events of the day catch up with Joe. Methos offers to help.</p><p>--</p><p>“I’ll send you a postcard when I settle in,” Methos said, and Joe tore his gaze away from the bottle long enough to shoot him an unimpressed look. Methos smiled back, that half-taunting turn of his lips that meant he knew Joe was annoyed and was amused by it. He dragged his finger across his chest and said, mock-solemn, “Cross my heart.” </p><p>Joe snorted. “Cross your heart and hope to die? Yeah, right. Pick another way to promise, Methos--” He started to get up. The day’s exertions chose that second to kick him in the ass; agony coursed through his back like someone had taken a knife to his spine. He dropped back into his chair. Even that movement sent another wave of pain through him. “<em>Jesus</em>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Touch We Enter Touch Entirely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evening_Bat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evening_Bat/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy this, Evening Bat! 
> 
> The title comes from "The Truth the Dead Know" by Anne Sexton. 
> 
> Thanks go out to carmarthen and pliny for looking this over for me and drcalvin for enduring endless questions about massages!

The bottle was empty. Joe spun it idly between his hands, watching how the lights of the bar caught and reflected in the glass. He’d had just enough bourbon to skirt the edge of drowsiness. Even the fact that Amy was gone didn’t hurt as much as before, the pain dulled by the bourbon and the potential of a reconciliation suggested in Methos’s toast.

The chair across from Joe creaked, Methos either getting to his feet or just shifting his weight. Joe didn’t bother looking up to see which it was. “Well, unless you want to open up another bottle, I think I’ll say farewell and goodnight,” Methos said.

“You leaving a forwarding address this time?” Joe asked, a little sourly. The bourbon had blunted his bitterness at the year and a half of silence and worry, at struggling through his grief over Ritchie with only the occasional visit and phone call from MacLeod to keep him from complete loneliness, but the anger was still there, just banked.

“I’ll send you a postcard when I settle in,” Methos said, and Joe tore his gaze away from the bottle long enough to shoot him an unimpressed look. Methos smiled back, that half-taunting turn of his lips that meant he knew Joe was annoyed and was amused by it. He dragged his finger across his chest and said, mock-solemn, “Cross my heart.”

Joe snorted. “Cross your heart and hope to die? Yeah, right. Pick another way to promise, Methos--” He started to get up. The day’s exertions chose that second to kick him in the ass; agony coursed through his back like someone had taken a knife to his spine. He dropped back into his chair. Even that movement sent another wave of pain through him. “ _Jesus_.”

For a few seconds he thought he was going to be sick, bile rising in his throat. He swallowed it down, closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to ebb to something manageable. It wasn’t the first time his back had done this. He’d put too much strain on it plenty of times over the years. It had just caught him by surprise this time. He breathed slowly, kept still. He would have to take a long shower and do some careful stretching before he slept if he wanted to be able to get out of bed in the morning.

He startled when Methos’s hands gripped his shoulders. His eyes flew open. When the hell had Methos gotten behind him? Methos could move as quietly as a cat when he wanted, but usually Joe could still keep track of him. Joe twisted a little, trying to get out of Methos’s reach, but Methos only tightened his hold.

“Methos, what the--”

Methos’s thumbs rubbed against Joe’s sweater, seeking out the knotted muscles. Even through the fabric, his thumbs found some of the worst tension, the muscles knotted in Joe’s shoulders from years of compensating for his prosthetics and cane. For a second Methos paused. Then he adjusted his grip and his fingers dug in mercilessly, right into the knots.

At the spike of pain, Joe jerked forward, slamming against the edge of the table in an instinctive attempt to escape, but Methos moved with him and kept up the pressure, ignoring Joe’s snarled, “ _Methos_.”

“That sounds like it hurts,” Methos said into his ear, and maybe that was sympathy in his voice, but knowing Methos’s sense of humor, he was probably amused by the way Joe had just used his name like a curse.

“Fuck you, of course it hurts,” Joe snapped. He grimaced at the raggedness of his own voice, and then bit back a relieved sound when Methos finally let up, his hands resting upon the curve of Joe’s neck. Resisting the urge to shove Methos’s hands away, he growled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Methos?”

Methos countered with a question of his own. Joe wasn’t surprised. “When’s the last time you had a massage?”

Joe snorted. Back in Seacouver he’d had a regular therapist, one who knew how to work the muscles thrown out of alignment by his limping, but between moving to Paris and trying to turn the Watcher organization into a less fucked version of itself, he hadn’t had a chance to find a decent replacement. The last guy he’d tried had made his back feel worse, not better. That had been at least a month ago.

“Watcher insurance doesn’t exactly cover massages,” he said. He swore when he turned his head a little and spotted a thoughtful look on Methos’s face. “No. Whatever the hell you’re thinking, Methos, _no_.”

Methos smiled at him, an innocent look that meant he was about to suggest something he knew Joe would hate. “You know, I _have_ been a massage therapist once or twice over the centuries….”

“Yeah, what haven’t you been,” Joe muttered under his breath. A couple millennia gave a guy plenty of time to try any occupation he wanted. Methos had probably been nearly everything under the sun at this point. Louder, even more sarcastically, Joe said, “Of course you have. Next you’ll tell me you invented massage.”

That irritating smile widened to a grin. “No, though Bian Que was an interesting instructor. And I did assist, however minor, in the writing of _Huangdi Neijing_.” He paused, and there was something half-expectant in his eyes, like he was waiting for Joe to ooh and aah.

Joe rolled his eyes. “I’m sure if I knew anything about the history of massage, I’d be very impressed right now,” he said sarcastically. “But I’ll be fine. I’ll take some ibuprofen, have a hot shower--”

“And wake up in misery in the morning,” Methos pointed out. He was still smiling, but there was an exasperated edge creeping into his voice, like he thought Joe was being an idiot. “If you can’t even stand without pain, you’ll feel worse tomorrow.”

Joe scowled. What pissed him off the most was that he knew Methos was right, even if his pride wanted to insist otherwise. Painkillers and a long hot shower could only do so much. When he said, “Fine,” it came out as irritated and grudging as he felt, but Methos didn’t call him on it.

Going up the stairs was awful; Joe’s back protested each step. He could feel Methos staring at him, probably wondering why, if Joe was living above his bar, he hadn’t bothered with an elevator for bad nights like this one. By the time Joe sunk onto his bed, he was covered in sweat and too shaky to get his clothes and prosthetics off.

When Methos silently reached for the bottom of Joe’s sweater, Joe didn’t smack Methos’s hands away, but it was a near thing. He’d mostly accepted what the landmine had done to him -- he’d had decades to make his peace with it -- but moments like these still hurt his pride. His thoughts must have shown on his face because once they got the sweater and shirt off, Methos said dryly, “I _have_ seen you in worse condition than this, if you will recall.” He tapped one long finger against one of the worst of Joe’s scars, where one of Galeti’s bullets had lodged between two ribs and proven difficult to extract.

The warm touch was almost ticklish, and Joe suppressed a shiver. “Yeah, I remember. You had a lousy bedside manner then too,” he said, and Methos laughed.

Methos made quick work of Joe’s pants and prosthetics, setting the latter within arm’s reach of the bed, presumably so that Joe could get to them easily in the morning. Joe probably shouldn’t have been surprised by the forethought-- Methos had been a doctor at least once, probably a hell of a lot more than once over the millennia, and prosthetics weren’t exactly a 20th century concept.

“Do you have any lotion?” Methos asked, startling Joe out of his thoughts.

Joe blinked at him, and then waved a hand at the nightstand. The lotion was for the worst of the scars on what was left of his legs, which still ached during bad weather, but it should work for this too. While Methos retrieved the lotion, Joe carefully stretched out on the bed, face-down.

As soon as his head hit the pillow, the bourbon and the day’s exertions caught up with him. He could feel his thoughts slow and get fuzzy around the edges, the way they did sometimes when he was about to fall asleep. He woke up a little when Methos’s fingertips lightly skimmed over his bare skin, tracing some of the bruises and scratches acquired dodging bullets earlier. “We’ll have to avoid those,” he thought Methos said, but it was muttered so quietly Joe couldn’t be sure he’d heard right. Then Methos’s hand lifted away.

Joe was half-expecting the lotion to be cold, had braced himself in anticipation, but Methos must have decided to be thoughtful and warmed it with his hands beforehand. The lotion felt lukewarm as Methos began to spread it across Joe’s skin. He was careful, avoiding any obvious bruises and mapping out any particularly tender spots with light, questioning touches.

Joe started to doze again at the repetitive movements, and was half-asleep when Methos said, cheerfully, “This is going to hurt, I’m afraid,” and began the actual massage. It hurt like hell, like massages always did, even with Methos avoiding the bruises and scratches.

Unlike with his old therapist, Joe didn’t bother biting back his complaints. He breathed in and out as evenly as he could, and with every exhale snarled a curse into his pillow. He thought Methos laughed a little at the profanity, but he wasn’t sure and didn’t really care.

It was impossible to forget that it was Methos’s hands on him, but Joe found he didn’t mind as much as he’d thought he would. It helped that Methos was quiet as he worked, no sarcastic remarks, just the occasional grunt of effort as he kneaded a particularly stubborn knot. Methos worked over Joe’s back and shoulders slowly, methodically, and by the time he’d reached Joe’s lower back, Joe was beginning to feel that loose-limbed sensation that came from an effective massage.

It was then that Methos paused, his fingertips resting on the edge of the elastic band of Joe’s boxers. “Bear with me for another minute,” he said.

Joe was about to ask him what he meant by that when Methos cupped Joe’s ass with both hands. He twitched in surprise. “Methos, what--” The question caught in his throat and turned into another string of profanity as Methos did _something_ with his hands. Joe was in agony until suddenly he wasn’t, as though Methos had pressed a magic button and unknotted all the muscles in what was left of Joe’s legs.

He shifted cautiously, Methos’s hands lifting away as he tested out his muscles. He was amazed by the lack of discomfort. “Damn,” he muttered, impressed in spite of himself. Despite knowing Methos didn’t need anyone stroking his ego, he couldn’t help but ask, “Did that Bian Que guy teach you that? Because I owe him one.”

“I’ll pass that along the next time I see him. Last I checked, he was keeping out of things in a Chinese temple,” Methos said.

When Joe turned a little to squint suspiciously at him, trying to gauge his sincerity, Methos smirked back. Nine times out of ten when Methos claimed a historical figure was or had been an Immortal, Joe assumed Methos was just trying to mess with him and was lying through his teeth. Then again, if anyone had told Joe five years ago that Lord Byron, he of the “mad, bad, and dangerous to know” reputation, was an Immortal, he would’ve laughed in the guy’s face, so what did he know. Maybe this Bian Que guy really _was_ holed up somewhere in China.

Joe settled for a snort and half-sarcastic, “You do that. Give him my regards while you’re at it.” Since Methos seemed to be done with the massage, Joe took the opportunity to stretch again, testing the muscles a little more. He fought back a grin, though the relief at moving without pain was pretty euphoric. “Do you have any more magic tricks up your sleeve, or are we done?”

When Methos didn’t immediately answer, Joe glanced at him. He caught the flicker of a fading look, one that Joe, startled, recognized. Methos could be subtle at times, but the way he looked at MacLeod when MacLeod wasn’t paying attention, the desire and speculative interest in his eyes, had never been subtle. It wasn’t a look Joe had ever expected to see Methos direct at him, though, and it caught him by surprise.

He opened his mouth, closed it without saying anything, turning the possibility over in his head. Sex with Methos would probably be more trouble than it was worth -- hell, half the time this friendship felt like more trouble than it was worth, when Methos wasn’t doing stuff like saving the lives of people Joe cared about -- but the idea was tempting despite the potential disaster.

Methos met his eyes, and Joe saw the instant Methos registered that he’d seen the look: all expression smoothed from Methos’s face, as though he couldn’t quite decide which mask to wear. Then one corner of Methos’s mouth turned up, a quirk of his lips that was half-invitation, half-challenge.

After a second, Joe grinned back. He’d never been good at backing down from a challenge. Hell, sleeping with Methos probably wouldn’t even be his worst decision today, all things considered. “Well, unless Bian Que taught you anything else, I need a shower,” he said.

Methos rose to his feet and stretched, a slow, deliberate movement that Joe didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t watching. Methos’s eyelashes dipped low, suddenly, ridiculously coquettish, and he drawled, “I don’t suppose your shower is large enough for two…?”

Joe snorted despite the sudden heat in his stomach. “If that was an attempt at coy, it needs some work.” When Methos only smirked, probably knowing that the question had still had its intended effect, Joe rolled over. He reached for his folded-up wheelchair, nestled between his bed and the nightstand. He didn’t use it too often, mostly for times like this, when it was too much effort to put his prosthetics back on just so he could walk the ten steps to the bathroom. Over his shoulder, he said, “Get the door for me, would you?”

He wheeled himself into the bathroom and kept his gaze on Methos, wanting to see his reaction to the shower, with its seat that could fit at least two people comfortably. He was rewarded by Methos pausing in the doorway and staring for a second. Obviously while he’d been invading Joe’s privacy and looking through his notes on Walker, he hadn’t ventured into Joe’s bathroom.

“Decidedly large enough for two,” Methos said at last, and grinned. Judging by the gleam in his eyes as he glanced between Joe and the seat, he was already imagining ways to put the shower’s design to use.

The look was distracting, especially when Joe’s imagination also chipped in with a few helpful suggestions. Between that and his limbs still feeling like overcooked noodles from the massage, it took Joe a minute to maneuver himself out of his wheelchair and onto the seat. He looked up to find Methos still in the doorway of the bathroom, watching.

Methos’s intent expression muted the vaguely self-conscious feeling Joe’d never been able to shake in the years since Vietnam, the one he got whenever his clothes came off in front of someone. He folded his arms against his chest and raised an eyebrow as he said, “Were you going to take a shower with your clothes on, or did you change your mind?”

Methos smirked. Instead of stripping, he crossed the space of the shower in a few quick strides. He pressed Joe back against cool tile; his hands, still slick from the lotion, were hot upon Joe’s shoulders. “One would think you’ve never heard of foreplay,” Methos murmured, and then kissed him, slow and dirty, until Joe was desperately hard.

“Taking your clothes off _is_ foreplay if you do it right,” Joe growled against Methos’s mouth when they finally paused to breathe, not bothering to hide the ragged edge to his voice. He knew he was impatient, knew that showing it would only make Methos smug, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “Now quit fucking around and--”

“Fuck you?” Methos suggested slyly, but with an undisguised heat in his eyes.

Joe thought it over. It was an appealing idea, hell, more than appealing, but he didn’t know if his back would love him or hate him for it in the morning. He ducked around the question for the moment and smirked instead. “Who wanted foreplay again?” He reached out and palmed Methos’s dick through his jeans. When Methos inhaled, sharply, Joe grinned and did it a second time.

Methos took in another quick breath. His eyes had closed at Joe’s first stroke, his hands tightening upon Joe’s shoulders. He kissed Joe again, this time blindly, his mouth hot against Joe’s. There was still the sharp sting of bourbon on his lips. Thrusting against Joe’s hand, Methos muttered, “Why don’t you give me a lesson then?”

Joe could do that. He grabbed a fistful of Methos’s hair and tugged him down for another kiss. Methos shuddered when Joe bit at his lower lip, made a little noise in his throat, so Joe did it again, and then a third time, until Methos’s appreciation turned into impatient sounds.

Joe took his time, alternating between kissing Methos, jerking him off, and undressing him. When he finally got Methos’s sweater and shirt off, he paused a few seconds to appreciate the sight. There was strength hidden beneath the ill-fitting clothes that Methos wore for camouflage or comfort or possibly both. He ran his hands slowly over Methos’s chest, traced the muscles of Methos’s stomach with light, teasing fingertips as Methos made another impatient noise. When Joe raised his eyes to Methos’s face, the other man looked exasperated.

“Hey, you wanted foreplay,” Joe reminded him, grinning and feeling more than a little smug.

A crooked smile touched Methos’s lips, acknowledging the fact. “So I did,” he said. Then his voice lowered and his gaze darkened. “But now I’d rather suck you off, if that’s all right with you.”

Joe blinked at him, temporarily stupefied by the thought of Methos’s mouth on him. He tried to speak and had to take a deep breath first as Methos’s expression turned just as self-satisfied. “Well, when you put it that way,” he said, dryly, and then braced himself against the wall as Methos knelt and tugged at his boxers.

Methos’s mouth closed around his cock, and and it was all Joe could do not to come then and there at the teasing flick of Methos’s tongue. He took another deep breath and let his head fall back against the tile, trying to get himself under control and not come like a teenager with no self-control. It had been too long since he’d had someone down on their knees in front of him, though, scratching light circles against his thighs and sucking him off with such eager finesse. When Joe looked down, Methos’s eyes were shut, his expression intent, all smugness wiped away.

“Fuck,” Joe said, and grabbed Methos’s shoulder, squeezing it in warning. His throat was dry, his heart pounding too fast and loud in his ears. “ _Methos_ \--” Methos’s name caught in his throat, turned into a groan as he came.

When he got his breath back and opened his eyes, it was to find that Methos had pressed his face against Joe’s thigh, his breathing uneven, his cheeks flushed. Joe just watched for a second, enjoying the sight. Then he reached out and rubbed his thumb lightly along the line of Methos’s jaw until Methos blinked and looked up at him, his swollen lips twitching into a smile that managed to be both self-satisfied and sheepish.

When Joe lowered his gaze, he understood. He found himself wavering between two emotions: smugness at Methos apparently coming just from sucking him off, but disappointment that he’d missed it. It was only when Methos huffed out an exasperated breath, a puff of air against Joe’s thigh that Joe realized he was smirking. He ran his thumb along Methos’s jaw again, rubbed at a white streak at the corner of Methos’s mouth. “Well,” he said, and then couldn’t help his broadening smirk. “Guess we really do need that shower now.”

Methos shot him a sardonic look at that, but didn’t answer. Instead he got to his feet in a single fluid motion, kicking off his shoes. As Methos took every piece of clothing and threw them out onto the bathroom floor, Joe settled back against the wall and enjoyed the show, watching Methos’s lean frame.

He kept on enjoying the show as Methos closed the shower door and then stalked back across the tile, still looking annoyed. He enjoyed it right up until the point that Methos grinned like the Chesire Cat and turned the cold water on full blast. The water was ice cold. Joe swore and fumbled behind him for the hot water, muttering, “You’re a real asshole, you know that, right?”

“So I’ve been told,” Methos said, still grinning even as he relented and twisted the cold water valve until the shower was hot rather than lukewarm.

It wasn’t until after the shower that Joe hesitated. He twisted his towel in his hands, watching surreptitiously as Methos ran a towel down his chest. Joe opened his mouth, closed it. Everything he wanted to say sounded stupid even in his own head and would sound even worse out loud. Then he snorted at himself for being an idiot. Hell, what was the worst that could happen if he invited Methos to stay the night? It wasn’t like Methos would take it the wrong way. “Unless you’ve got a plane to catch, stay the night,” he offered. Then he grinned. “Who knows, I might even cook you breakfast.”

Methos’s face was half-hidden as he dried his hair. Then he lowered the towel to reveal a vaguely amused look. “Well, when you put it that way,” he said.

It took Joe a second to realize that Methos had deliberately mimicked his earlier response. His lips twitched. “Asshole,” he said again. “Get my chair, would you?”

Joe had never considered if Methos was a snuggler, but somehow he wasn’t surprised when Methos draped a possessive arm across Joe’s waist and pressed in close despite the king-sized bed. His breath was warm as it tickled the back of Joe’s neck. The slow, even breaths had half-lulled Joe to sleep when Methos stirred and said, “I don’t have a plane ticket.”

For a second the words didn’t make any sense, and then they did. “Well then, stick around,” Joe said. “You can tell me more about Bian Que tomorrow.” He snorted, sleepily. “Or you can lie your ass off while I try to figure out what’s actually true, like you usually do.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Methos murmured against Joe’s shoulder, though he sounded more amused than offended.

“Yes,” Joe said, and Methos laughed.


End file.
